


All In

by ThreeWhiskeyLunch



Series: Madness Because The Reasons Don't Make Sense [10]
Category: Mass Effect
Genre: Established Relationship, Family Fluff, Father's Day, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-21
Updated: 2015-06-21
Packaged: 2018-04-05 09:33:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4174848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThreeWhiskeyLunch/pseuds/ThreeWhiskeyLunch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Crossing the line from Enforcer of Bedtimes to Parental Unit is a big step. And not necessarily within Zaeed's power to control. Sometimes it's best just to go with it and see what happens.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All In

**Author's Note:**

> This is fill for a prompt from anarchycox: "maybe the foster kids and garrus try (and either succeed or fail spectacularly) to surprise zaeed for father's day?" It was originally intended for the Domestic Madness fluff, but then Shit Got Real and it turned Important, plus it fits quite nicely with the story that will be coming after this, so I decided to make it it's own little story.
> 
> Many, many hugs and smoochies to VeetVoojagig for the belly rubs while I angsted over this.
> 
> Also, this is my first Father's Day without my dad around, and while he would most definitely Not Approve of the content (male/male what now?), he was always supportive of any and all creative endeavors I put forward. So here's a little hat tip to my dad, who I miss every day, and a thank you to all fathers out there for being the best dad you know how to be. Carry on.

They’re up to something, the sneaky sons of bitches. He hears them, skulking around in the kitchen making a piss poor attempt to be quiet. As if. He could teach them a thing or two about quiet. Somehow evolution seems to have passed over the two Turians in his house from their ancestors' prey-stalking abilities. Think they’re being so goddamn clever. Then he hears Ingrid’s distinctive morning hop to the kitchen, knows she’s in on whatever trouble they’re cooking up out there. And they are indeed cooking. He smells bacon. And coffee. He checks the time. Only 0645 on a Sunday morning. Normally when Garrus is home, he doesn't bother to start Zaeed's coffee until just before Zaeed manages to drag his sorry ass out of bed at 0800. And he never whispers.  
  
It's the whispering that really pricks at his ears, and the clinking of dishes. Oh yeah. They’re up to something and for the life of him, he can’t figure out what the fuck it could be because it’s not his goddamn birthday or anyone’s birthday for that matter. He takes a moment to wrack his brain, then double checks the calendar on his omnitool. No. Nothing. So what the hell is going on?  
  
Then shit gets really quiet and he knows, like any sniper worth his weight in eezo knows, that they’re on the move and he pulls the covers up over his head. He can practically trace their steps through the house: kitchen and entry hall-both tiled, both hard for Turians to walk quietly over in their bare feet as their toe-claws scrape the floor, then the carpeted hallway where the two males relax a little, walk a little easier. Ingrid he has a harder time with, she must be wearing socks since she usually can't get enough of slapping her bare feet across the cool tiles. Then they’re at the door to the bedroom, clustered like goddamn gawking tourists at the zoo.  
  
He lets out a soft snore-he doesn’t really know what he sounds like when he snores, only that he does. In the past he’s been told by some that it's like a buzzsaw and others have barely mentioned it. Garrus mentioned it once, a teasing jest about windows rattling that was said with such endearing affection that he didn’t take seriously. So he just lets out a small snorted breath, never one for overacting, and listens to the two children creep along in that think-they’re-being-stealthy way. He smothers a laugh at the mental image of them, snorts another snore to cover it up. He waits, and he’s good at waiting, muscles ready to spring once both of the little monsters are in range.  
  
Someone bumps the edge of the mattress, enough for a person lying in the bed to notice, so he groans a bit, pulls the covers tighter but otherwise doesn’t move as the two children freeze in place, holding their breath. He smirks to himself, senses when they move, when they’re both close enough and then-  
  
“Rawr!”  
  
-flings the covers aside and pulls both of them onto the bed while they squirm, Paxton giggling and squealing, Ingrid huffing her silent laugh.  
  
“Trying to sneak up on an old merc, eh?” He holds Paxton down, tickles him behind his knees until the youngling is gasping for breath. He switches his attention to Ingrid, “Think you can outsmart this old bastard, do ya?” His fingers poke her sides, her huffing laugh turning into a cough, then piles pillows on top of her one after the other. Paxton launches himself at Zaeed, tackles him and tries to tickle back, but there’s only one person in this room who knows how to make him twitch and it’s no one on the bed.  
  
He looks up at his mate, who regards the carnage of bedclothes with a wry eye. “Well, that went better than expected.” Garrus is carrying a tray which holds a cup-presumably his coffee-and a plate with toast and bacon. Zaeed’s favorite breakfast, and because a man has to have standards, the toast has butter and marmelade-real Seville orange marmalade, not that sweet shit some people think to call marmalade-and the bacon is rashers, with the meaty bit at the end and cooked crisp, and the coffee is dark and has a splash of cream.  
  
“Oh? What were you expecting?”  
  
“Gun fire. Explosions.” Garrus sets the tray down on the side table, pulls a giggling Paxton off of Zaeed so that he’s dangling over the bed, arms and legs flailing. “The usual when someone tries to sneak up on you.” He tosses Paxton to the other side of the bed where he lands with a bounce, still giggling while he searches for Ingrid under the pillows. Garrus sits down on the bed and kisses his mate.  
  
“So what’s all this then?”  
  
“Father’s Day. Paxton’s idea. He heard some kids talking about it at school. Turians don’t have holidays to celebrate parents. Not sure if that’s a good or a bad thing actually. Anyway, he was intrigued. Did some research. Came up with the plan.”  
  
_Father's Day._ The words jar in his head. He’s not really sure what to do with that phrase. It doesn’t apply to him so why are these three acting like it does? Child wrangler maybe would be a better word for what he's been doing, or tutor sometimes, or cook-he never imagined how much food two kids could pack away, or enforcer of bedtimes, teller of tall tales and reader of books, instructor in weaponry, nagger of bedroom cleanliness. Any of those, but not father. The word sits strangely in his head and he skirts around it, ignoring the small voice that is his heart that wants to combine all those words, because together doesn’t that make a-  
  
“There’s a present.” Garrus is kissing him again, and that could bloody well go on all day as far as he’s concerned.  
  
“Oh?” Zaeed shrugs off his unease to return the kiss, murmurs in his ear, “It wouldn’t be locking the kids out on the balcony while I fuck you senseless, would it?”  
  
Garrus grins, mandibles twitching, but they’re interrupted by the children bouncing on the bed.  
  
“Hey! Knock it off, you rascals.”  
  
They land on their butts, breathless from the excitement, and Paxton whispers in Ingrid’s ear. She nods and propels herself off the bed to retrieve a homemade card and a small wrapped present that had been left on the floor. Paxton thumps Zaeed on the chest. “You need to open your present.”  
  
“Well, give it to me and I bloody well will.” There’s scrambling and adjusting as Ingrid climbs back up on the bed. Then small hands wave the card in front of his face.“Happy Father’s Day” is written on the outside in Ingrid’s illegible scrawl, letters following a design of her own making. Even as she tries to copy out letters when Zaeed shows her, her small tongue bitten between her teeth as she concentrates, she manages to be quite creative in her interpretations. She took to learning sign language like it was breathing. Writing? Needs lots of practice to catch up. Inside is a picture of the four of them holding hands on the beach, waves rolling in the background, seashells scattered on the sand. It’s rough in the way five-year old pictures are rough. But he can clearly make out each of them drawn out in colored pencil.  
  
He remembers then, the last time anyone had given him a homemade present. Jessie coming home from school, pulling the picture of a painted macaroni rainbow that she’d made from her school bag, showing him with a pleased grin on her face. Zaeed had taped it over the aged and stained wallpaper next to his bed. Jessie had beamed with pride, and he’d felt a small amount of shame, knowing that such small things could make her so happy. Life can be so simple, and so very complicated at the same time.  
  
He looks Ingrid over. She doesn’t smile much, more somber than someone who’s five should ever look, but a broad grin lights up her face when he asks, “You made this?”  
  
She nods, signs with her tiny fingers, _‘Paxton help.’_  
  
“But I only made the waves,” Paxton interjects. “She did the rest. See the seashells? She made all those. And look! She got your scar, and Garrus’ scar too.”  
  
“Yeah, I see. It's really good.” He pulls her into a hug, kisses the top of her head. “Thank you, poppet.” She buries her face in his chest, her skinny arms around him as much as she can. She puts everything of herself into her tiny embrace. Ingrid’s hugs are never half-hearted and she gives them freely, something that’s taken him a bit to get used to. But now, he knows he’d miss those intense hugs if they were gone. He hands the picture to Garrus to set on the bedside table and hugs her back, tries to not crush her with the sudden rush of affection he feels for her.  
  
“Now me!” Paxton bounces, hands him the present. He looks like he can barely keep himself from unwrapping it for Zaeed.  
  
He settles Ingrid at his side, holds the box carefully in his hand, leary of what it might contain. "If this is that dead frog you had in your pocket the other day, you're grounded for a month."  
  
Paxton giggles and shakes his head. "Garrus helped me. I used my allowance."  
  
"Allowance, huh?" He slips the paper off. "So this is probably full of beach sand. I know you don't have any credits left, since you spend it all on comic books and your old movie stuff."  
  
Paxton grins, small mandibles flaring. He shakes his head and watches eagerly as Zaeed flips the box lid up. He barely has it open, can see a gleaming silver lighter embossed with the Batman symbol on it, before Pax has it out in his hot little hands. "See it's a lighter. Cause you smoke cigars sometimes. And this is the Batman symbol and you call Garrus that and he calls you Boy Wonder, so I thought you'd like to have the Batman thing so you can be reminded of Garrus because he's gone a lot. Do you like it?" As if demonstrating it's features, he flicks the top open then closed so it makes a satisfying metal 'click'. The morning sun catches on the shiny surface, reflecting haphazard bursts of brief burning light.  
  
He holds out his hand, tries to not notice the small tremble in his fingers, or the way his throat aches as he swallows, or the way his Turian is looking at him with bright eyes. That Paxton has not only noticed the nicknames they call each other, but pointed it out in the form of a gift should probably bother him at the very least, embarrass him at the most. But he finds himself touched, and proud in a way he doesn’t want to examine (although his heart knows, his heart could put it all in place quite simply if he’d only let it). Pax places the lighter in his palm and he shifts it so he can rub his thumb over the engraved curve of a stylized bat wing. He flicks the lid open, spins the flint wheel and the small flame sputters a moment on fresh fuel, then settles and sends out small tendrils of heat. His thumb slides up the back, shuts the lid to extinguish the flame, the distinctive tinny noise the only sound in the room.  
  
There’s a hopeful expression on Paxton’s face as he watches and Zaeed has to take a deep breath, swallow hard again to keep his emotions from overwhelming him. He never would have guessed that these two children would have wormed their way into his heart like they have. No, it hasn’t been easy or smooth. Yes, they’ve been not-so-small pains in his ass. But he can’t help thinking that he might be better for it, that together they make a cohesive...squad, er, gang. Team? He struggles to find the right word (his heart scoffs, but doesn’t try to supply anything else, just smirks in the background). He does wonder at how well they all seem to have adapted to each other. His life has changed drastically, and he would be a half-witted jackass if he didn’t admit he had been apprehensive about it. But now, sitting on the bed with Garrus and these two brats while the early morning sun slashes through the windows, he can at least admit that he cares for them more than just a little.  
  
“Yeah. I like it.”  
  
The young Turian flings himself toward him. For a moment he thinks it’s to tackle him again, but instead his arms are wrapped around his neck in a hug, and that’s a surprising first that takes his breath away. His eyes are blurry and burn and he finds he has to clench his teeth to hold in the swelling in his chest as his fondness and attachment for the boy threatens to overwhelm him. He blinks rapidly, even as he hugs the small Turian to him with one arm, the other still around Ingrid in what is nearly a group hug. But not quite. He looks over Paxton’s head and Garrus is grinning so wide it looks like his mandibles hurt. “Christ. Get over here, you.”  
  
He doesn’t have to ask twice and they’re all enveloped in the warmth that is Garrus.  
  
“Can we stay?” Paxton’s voice is muffled and quiet in Zaeed’s tshirt and he isn’t quite sure he’s heard him right.  
  
He looks down, the boy sandwiched in a scrum between him and Garrus. “You want to...stay?”  
  
There’s a brief nod and the boy’s fingers clasp even more tightly around his neck. “With you and Garrus. Can we? Forever?”  
  
He looks at Garrus, who’s so close he can feel his breath and his blue eyes are wide and questioning and so very pleased.  
  
"Did you know about this?" Zaeed asks.  
  
Garrus shakes his head. "No. This is all them."  
  
They had discussed it a few times since the children had come to live with them, what might happen if they should adopt. But nothing had been resolved, neither of them quite sure they were able to make the decision-Garrus because of work taking him away so often, Zaeed because he’s Zaeed and knows full well that taking that final leap into being all in is so unknowable. It’s bigger even than Garrus and himself being together. It intimidates him, makes him feel vulnerable, not exactly in control.  
  
He gently takes Paxton’s arms, clinging so tightly, and pulls back to look him in the eye. The boy looks worried, maybe that he’s overstepped. Garrus sees and trills to him, reassures him and Paxton relaxes a little. Ingrid is looking up at all of them with her startling big blue eyes and Zaeed asks her, “You in on this? You want to stay too I suppose.”  
  
She nods eagerly. _‘Stay Dadee Papa,’_ she signs with hesitant fingers.  
  
“Spirits,” Garrus says quietly, more than a little wonder in his voice, warmth in his subvocals.  
  
_Daddy. Papa._  
  
All the goddamn air has been sucked from the room and he desperately wonders who the hell she’s talking about because it most certainly isn’t him. Garrus yes. Garrus has father written all over him. He’s dependable and solid and patient, everything a father should be. Zaeed is grouchy and swears when he shouldn’t, he’s rough and hard and it takes him an effort to be gentle (that’s a lie, his heart says, showing him images of the past six months: Paxton skinning his knees and elbow when he tried skateboarding for the first time and Zaeed hadn’t scolded him for not wearing protective gear, just patched him up and sent him back out again once all the neglected gear was in place; Ingrid and Paxton fighting over toys and Zaeed banishing them to their corners to cool off, then sitting down with them as they all built a tower with Lincoln Logs and duct tape; Ingrid, in her nervous habit, twisting the button off another of his shirts just as they’re ready to go out and it’s his last decent shirt with all the buttons intact and he curses under his breath after the needle pricks his finger again while he clumsily sews the bloody thing back on-his heart could go on and on but he tells it to fuck off, admits the point).  
  
He feels Garrus’ arm as it tightens across his back, hears the pleased hum in his subvocals. _Daddy. Papa. Which one of us is which,_ he wonders wildly. He notices that his throat is aching and he’s failed to blink back a tear as it slides down his cheek. Then realizes it doesn't really matter because, well because he never thought he'd be called either and now he has and apparently he’s lived through it, feels alright about it. He's breathless in a way he’s never felt before, anticipation for a future that suddenly seems so strange and yes, okay, fucking frightening and so goddamn beautiful and he’s fairly sure he doesn’t deserve any of it, but he’ll take it if only because it’s offered up by these two small beings that he’s come to love (yes, his heart says, goddammit yes).  
  
Visions of a possible future flash before him: a small blond girl growing, blue eyes glimmering with joy, maybe finally finding her voice, teaching her to snipe, teaching her to throw knives. His tiny warrior. A not so small boy strutting as his fringe grows, getting his colony markings. Getting older and going to college or doing his military service, bringing home a someone special. Maybe both of them, finding their own someones, having kids of their own. Garrus and himself getting older too. Raising these kids to be fierce and proud, full of dreams and the ability to make those dreams reality, to find their own paths. Whatever they want to do. He sees it all, so clear. That future is all there within his reach. All he has to do is embrace it.  
  
_Daddy. Papa._  
  
He smoothes down Ingrid’s unruly blond curls. “We need to-” his voice cracks and he pauses, wishes for the coffee that’s beyond his reach-by now probably cold-to wash down the emotion that’s threatening to drown him. Instead he settles for clearing his throat. Garrus nuzzles his cheek where there’s a trail of dampness, and maybe there was more than just that one tear because it seems like his face is wetter than it should be. "Aw shit." He swipes at the tears. He doesn't goddamn cry, he never cries. He should be surprised, but he isn't. He should be ashamed, but he most certainly isn't. What he feels is peaceful, contentment. Happy (will wonders never cease, his heart whispers).  
  
He leans into Garrus, taking comfort from his solid presence. Whatever happens, they’re in this together and the idea that he doesn’t have to go it alone anymore sometimes needs to reinforce itself, still can feel like a new thing. But he's grown used to the idea. Where before it sat awkwardly in his thoughts like a small pebble in his boot that didn't hurt, but made him change the cadence of his step, now he barely thinks of it as strange. Instead it’s become the way he prefers and would tell anyone to fuck off if they told him things had ever been any different.  
  
He looks between the two small faces who are looking back at him with such earnestness and need and hopeful trust, wonders when had that trust happened. Without him knowing, without him trying to make it happen they now look to them, to him, to make choices that are for their benefit. He clears his throat a second time. “Garrus and I need to talk about this.” He sees Paxton deflate with disappointment, just a little, and that he cannot have and he questions when did that happen too? Somehow he has become so emotionally invested that he wants to make these two brats happy. “Not promising anything. There are things beyond our control. But we’ll discuss it, and find out what needs to happen. Go from there. Alright?”  
  
Both children nod, solemn with seriousness. He looks sideways at his mate. “And you. Alright?”  
  
Garrus grins. “Yes.” His arm tightens briefly across his shoulders, encouragement in the simple touch.  
  
“Right then.” The scrum of bodies loosens and Zaeed realizes he’s been clutching the lighter in his fist this whole time. It’s warm and solid, smooth metal until it’s not where the engraving curves. He sighs and clears his throat again. “So. What about this breakfast? I’m so hungry I could eat two small children.” While the other three chatter around him, he eats his cold breakfast, drinks his lukewarm coffee, prevents Paxton from setting fire to the bed, tries to keep his brain from saying what his heart is nearly screaming. But there's only so much he can do to keep it silent, only so many ways to skirt around the idea that won't let him go. Until he just gives in with a defeated sigh, and it's a bit of a relief to admit the word into his consciousness, if anything to give his patient heart some reprieve from holding it in for so long.  
  
For the first time since he was twelve he has a family (yes, his heart says, sweetjesusfuckingchrist yes). And maybe he’s okay with that. Maybe more than okay. Maybe he admits, goddamnit, that this is the way it should be, the way it will be. That yes, this is the way he wants it to be.

**Author's Note:**

> I've gotten some amazing love about this series lately, which is so overwhelming and appreciated. The hard part about writing a rare pairing is that you tend not to get as many hits as the popular pairs, but the great thing is the people that do speak up and support this insanity have become like my own little cheerleading squad and I just wanted to thank one and all for brandishing your pompoms while I flail around pretending like I know what I'm doing. [ I am on Tumblr occasionally](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/threewhiskeylunch), if you want to shoot me a PM I'd love to hear from you. Thanks again! You inspire me!


End file.
